


Mon Chèr

by EternalFangirl



Series: Henry Plantagenet is Mine Series [4]
Category: Henry V - Shakespeare, SHAKESPEARE William - Works, The Hollow Crown (2012)
Genre: F/M, Harry Lives, Screw History, Welcome Home, because I said so
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-07
Updated: 2016-02-07
Packaged: 2018-05-18 22:17:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,121
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5945161
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EternalFangirl/pseuds/EternalFangirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry returns from war to find that Kate has a surprise for him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mon Chèr

**Author's Note:**

> So, according to the timeline of the [Hundred Years War](http://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=http%3A%2F%2Fwww.maisonstclaire.org%2Ftimeline%2F1421.html&t=NWY3OTIxZjllNTRlNzEyMzllZWE0NjQxNDBmYjBjY2ZlN2ZjYjI0Niw2ZG5YTFo5bw%3D%3D), I could not have the two things I wanted the most: Catherine telling Harry she was pregnant, and Harry being there when Henry was born. I looked at the timeline long and hard, then basically said ‘fuck you’. So the whole timeline has been royally fucked up, and let us just consider that instead of dying in August, Harry made it home in, like, June or something, okay? If Shakespeare can ignore key historical details for literary license, then dammit, so can I. I am only following the Bard’s example. Oh, also, spoiler alert: Harry doesn’t die, because I love him a lot more than good ol’ William S. did.
> 
> And I found a livejournal detailing [royal childbirth in medieval times](http://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=http%3A%2F%2Fplantagenesta.livejournal.com%2F68443.html&t=ZTg1OTkxMjEzNTg5Zjc1Mjg3Mjk4OWNjYzIzNWYzMjdlNTM5NzkwMSw2ZG5YTFo5bw%3D%3D), which I might need later. Thank you [@purplexparadise](http://tmblr.co/mdxvy9CXjPhRyEl-p5cuecA), for the French line in there… x

Catherine was living in a nightmare.

Her present circumstances were such that sleep was a fond memory of the past, and she dared not close her eyes for fear of invoking ghoulish visions of blood and gore and battlefields. Instead, she spent all her days praying, and her nights tossing and turning in bed. The court was filled with people who saw her with hatred and contempt, but she persevered. She was no longer a child but a queen, and she was well aware she was not well-liked at court. Instead of pandering to wealthy nobles in an effort to woo their support, Catherine spent her days gathering gossip from her ladies-in-waiting.

Thomas, the Duke of Clarence, was dead, and her husband was on the warpath.

The news had arrived in the middle of April, and when Catherine had looked at the rage in her husband’s face, she had known for certain that France was going to burn. In a frenzy of preparation, Henry had gathered support and means, and was now fighting her brother in France. There were horrific tales pouring in every day, of how he was unforgiving and hellbent on revenge, of how he had burned all of Rougemont as recompense for his brother’s slaughter. He was a man possessed, and now he was at the gates of Meaux, demanding entry.

And so Catherine prayed, and hoped all would be well.

She wept and she cried in those private moments in the dead of the night, wishing and praying for the return of those nights when her husband was safe in his bed next to her.

Then came the day when she spent the whole morning heaving up the contents of her stomach, her stomach fluttering and her hands clammy. Certain she had caught some disease, she had sought help. And then, the Royal doctors had told her she was going to be a mother.

Catherine held her head high, accepting the congratulations and the adoration. It seemed she had finally done something to help her husband in the war–she had secured his position with the possibility of an heir to his throne. So she smiled and sat in the throne room, accepting the adulation of the men who saw her with suspicion a mere day ago, and wished her husband back home with her, where he belonged. She wrote him a letter than night, sobbing with the agony of wondering whether it would reach him, worrying he may be dead already and she didn’t know yet. She wrote to him, telling him she thought she was going to give him an heir, telling him how terribly she missed him, and how much she loved him.

She wrote and rewrote several times, agonizing over the words, then sealed the letter just as the first rays of the sun were piercing the horizon.

Later that day, a rider rode to court, bringing word that Meaux had finally given in to the might of the English, and that the king was ill. Nevertheless, he was going to travel back home to England, and recuperate.

Catherine could slowly feel her own sanity unraveling. She questioned the messenger mercilessly, demanding to know where the king was at this precise moment, how ill he was, what was ailing him, and how long before he made it home. The messenger had no answers, for he was a mere page who had left the company of the king three weeks earlier, but she could not stop repeating her questions, willing for even a small assurance that her husband was well enough to make the journey home.

She got none.

For the next two weeks, Catherine barely felt alive. She alternately cursed her husband for not writing to her and prayed for his well-being, she pestered the Royal Doctors to ask the Parliament leave so that they could attend to the king (an impossible feat now that the king was on his way home). She ate only when she was reminded by her worried ladies-in-waiting, and then still only for the baby in her belly. She was a woman stuck in time, curiously adrift from reality as she awaited the return of her love.

The sound of the bugle woke her from fitful sleep just as dawn broke. There was great clamour to be heard from the open windows, and Catherine knew from the jubilant sounds that her husband was back, sick or not.

She felt life return to her for the first time in months, and she dressed in a frenzy of movement as she sent a boy to ask what news was to be had. Impatient with the sleepy movements of her maids, Catherine fixed her own headdress and almost stumbled as she tried to slip her feet into her slippers at the same time. Her heart was pounding so loudly she couldn’t even hear her footsteps on the stairs, but she ran as if the hounds of hell were after her.

And there he was.

Harry was still atop his horse, having barely made it into the courtyard when he saw her. And for a moment, just one single moment suspended in time, they both felt their haphazard lives return to being right-side-up. The world suddenly settled, anxiety and fear seeping out and escaping in the wind.

Ignoring the stable boy who was rushing to help him, Harry almost jumped from his horse. Catherine gasped, of a mind to smack him for being so careless when his health was not up to par, but she found suddenly that she could not move.

The frenzy in the courtyard was great, because Harry had ridden up with a few soldiers instead of sending forward a herald to announce his impending arrival. His nobles  were starting to gather,  confused and questioning, but he only had eyes for her in that moment. He walked up to her–filthy, tired, but still his eyes blazed. When he came up to where she stood, he wrapped his arms around her wordlessly, unheeding of the scandalized whispering that began instantly.

_Fuck them_ , thought Kate as she melted in her husband’s embrace, as she closed her eyes and breathed him in, unmindful of the grime and the dirt now clinging to her dress.

He was home.

“Welcome home, Harry,” said Catherine in his ear. “I have something to tell you,” she added before he was dragged away by the Duke of Exeter, looking for all intents and purposes like he would cheerfully murder anyone to get back into her arms. She smiled at him as he tried to signal to her that he would find her.

Catherine knew that if there were even a small chance of finding her, Harry would seize it. So she didn’t go looking for her husband. Instead, she went to the royal kitchens, trying to navigate through the hustle and bustle her husband’s unexpected arrival had caused, making sure his favourite pudding would be served for dinner. Next, she went to the workshop of the royal doctor, demanding some salves and soothing tinctures. She knew Harry would be careless with his wounds, and she would probably have to deal with them.

As she was returning to her chambers, wondering where all her ladies were, she felt a hand grab her wrist and tug her backwards. She let out a noise not unlike what a mouse makes when trampled before she realized who it probably was.

As she opened her mouth to scold Harry for scaring her, he attacked her mouth with such gentle ferocity it took her breath away. Harry kissed her like a man possessed, like a man drinking water after being deprived of it for too long. She struggled for a second or two, fairly certain the soldiers posted on her chamber doors could see them, but then gave up when she realized Harry’s mind was not concerned with propriety right now. His mind rarely ever bothered with it anyway.

Harry was making the most delicious sounds, and she let herself drown in the kiss, in the arms she had dreamt of for weeks. She licked his lips when he gave her enough leave to do so, and smiled when he let out what could only be described as a growl. Harry’s hands were getting bolder, they were now roaming around her waist, pulling her resisting body closer and closer to his own. She squeaked again when one of those naughty hands found her breast.

“Harry!” she breathed against his face, nearing doubling over backwards trying to talk some sense into his while he continued tugging her closer. This proved to be flawed strategy, for now her neck was exposed to him, and he proceeded to suck on it with vigour.

“Kate,” he breathed against her as she tried to calm him. “Oh, how I have missed you, dear wife. How I dreamed of you…” He licked her neck and she bit her lip to stop her groan. “You look lovelier than you did when I left. Is that possible? Or did I just not grasp the beauty of you even then? I am never going to leave your side ever again.”

“Come,” she panted. “We are out in the passageways, my king. Let us at least go into our chambers now.” He finally let her go, keeping his hand in hers as she dragged him to her rooms. Whether this was because she asked, or because the room had a bed, well, that was anyone’s guess.

The door had barely closed behind them when he fairly attacked her again. She threw her arms around him, finally, squeezing hard. He stiffened, but didn’t make a sound, and she loosened her grip. “What is the matter? Are you alright? Harry?”

“Fine,” he said through gritted teeth. “I am better than I have been for months now.” He smiled when she glared at him. “Well, maybe the wound on my shoulder does not agree with the rigorous way you embrace, my lady.”

Catherine gasped and removed her hand as though scalded. “You is hurt.”

Harry struggled to keep her in his embrace as she tried to move away. “Well, I did go to war.”

“Yes,” she breathed as she stopped struggling and just listened to his heart beat in his chest. “And you came back to me.” She blinked back sudden tears, wondering idly on how she managed to produce more after weeks of shedding them. “I will die if anything happens to you, _mon chèr_.”

Harry hooked a finger under her chin and looked into her eyes. “Nothing will happen to me. I am home now.”

“Let me see,” she said gently as she looked him over. He looked more human now than he had a few hours ago. She was certain a hot bath and comfortable clothing must have felt like heaven to him after months on campaign, and she was glad to see him back in his favoured leather jerkin and breeches. He looked less like a soldier and more like a king. She tilted her head up for a kiss again, and her king planted a sweet one on her mouth promptly. He was back with her, he was back where he belonged.

Catherine tugged him towards the bed, and his eagerness in following her unsaid instruction showed her he was still thinking of her naked. She didn’t mind, for she herself wanted him, but first things first. She had an injured husband and important news to deliver.

“Come,” she said, pointing to the foot of the bed. “Sit here, and let me see.” She could feel Harry’s warm breath on her face as she undid the buttons holding his jerkin closed. She dared not look up for fear of getting distracted.

Once the jerkin was off, she let out a cry of dismay as she looked at the veritable palette of colours his once pale skin displayed. He was black and blue, with cuts and scratches to accompany the bruises, and she felt a surge of pure feminine rage against anyone who had dared to hurt her king so. Her brother had better not appear before her ever again, for she was certain she would stab him through the eyes for hurting the love of her life.

Harry’s shoulder looked red and angry, a battle-wound delivered by a sword. The thin, clean cut was very recent, but it was not bleeding, which gave her relief. Without a word, she opened the tiny container of remedy the royal doctor had given her.

“You are crying again, ma reine,” Harry observed in a hushed voice.

“Have you seen the royal healers?” Catherine already knew the answer to the question, and she could feel herself get angry with him.

“No,” he said. “All I wanted was to be here, with you. And it is not necessary, I am merely battle-bruised. There is no ghastly injury.”

Catherine looked pointedly at the blooming red expanse that was his mangled shoulder. Her finger, with salve dripping from it, was hovering over the wound. “This will hurt.”

He smiled. “And I shall bear the sweet torment that my wife brings me with pride.”

Catherine almost rolled her eyes. She wondered sometimes how Harry could have called himself ineloquent when they met, so long ago. She certainly seemed to inspire poetry in him.

While she applied salve onto his shoulder, his restless hands roamed over her body with abandon. No amount of scolding or glaring could stop those hands, and she stopped trying after a while. Instead, she concentrated on how to tell him he was going to be a father. She was certain he didn’t know, for he would have mentioned it by now if he did. How to tell him?

“You said you had something to tell me, love,” Harry reminded her gently as she moved to the basin to wash her fingers. His brow furrowed when he saw her fidget with the washcloth, when she didn’t turn around to face him. He watched her move around the room, getting worried with each additional step. “Catherine? Is it the same something everyone in the palace seems hellbent on telling me this morning? What is the matter?”

Catherine turned then, perhaps moved by the worry in his voice, and smiled at him. “It is nothing frightening, my lord. Calm thyself.”

“Well, then, what is it? Are you well?”

Now the infernal woman was smiling broadly. “Says the man returned from war.” When he glared at her, she laughed and ran back to kiss his lips. “I am well, yes, in a manner of speaking.”

“What manner are we talking about? Speak plainly, I command it.”

She laughed again, then stopped abruptly. Even as Harry looked on, aghast, Catherine put a hand to her stomach and ran to a separate basin next to her bed. He launched off the bed as he heard her vomit.

Catherine wished she could stop the early morning sickness long enough to explain to the king that she was fine. He was hovering behind her, spectacularly unprepared to deal with his puking wife, his hands running up and down her back as he questioned her mercilessly.

“Catherine? Oh, dear wife, you are not well! I–I should… I will call your maids, and they will… Uh, do something–” He must have realized how absurd he sounded for he stopped himself. “What is the matter with you?” Before Catherine could answer, he started to call for the guards at her door.

“Non,” she said weakly, her head still in the basin, her hand grasping his wrist.

“What?” he said, bending to remove her hair from her face tenderly. “Why?”

“I know what is happening,” she said. “ _Je tiens à vous le dire, mais je ne sais comment…_ ”

“What?”

She finally finished what had become a morning ritual and reached for a towel as she turned to face him. “The little prince does not like to stay hungry for long,” she said. “He likes to remind me every morning to break my fast.”

Harry’s brows crinkled as he contemplated those words. Uncomprehending, he opened his mouth to ask her to explain, then closed it shut with an audible click as he finally caught the meaning of her words. “Wh–What? I– Prince? A child?” His face started turning pink, and his hands moved aggressively to grab her abdomen, but stopped in mid-air, as though suddenly afraid of damaging something precious. Instead, he pointed like a two-year-old. “You are with child?”

Catherine blushed and nodded.

Harry’s eyes widened, then he broke into a sudden grin. “A child! I am to be a father!” He rushed towards her then, every muscle in his face fairly struggling to control the girth of his smile, threatening to break his face in two. He looked like he was the luckiest man in the kingdom. If someone had asked him, he would have said so himself. He proceeded to show her when he kissed her with all the happiness he currently felt.

Catherine started laughing when Harry lifted her off the ground and spun her around, carefree as a child. Her husband was alive and well, his baby was in her belly, and there was nothing else that she wanted more. She squealed when Harry lifted her higher, marvelling at his strength, and smiled when she felt him[ kiss her belly](http://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=http%3A%2F%2F13thfloordance.org%2Fi%2F2006%2Fmaria_cj_lift.jpg&t=YWY1Njg3NmQzM2U1MDgzZmE4ZDc4MDVjYWM4YWVmN2Y3ZjI3MDYzMiw2ZG5YTFo5bw%3D%3D) where his child grew strong.

He didn’t put her down for the next five minutes. While he was parading her around like the victor of a battle, he debated whether or not to call his court to officially commission the commemorative festivities. He decided against going away from her and refused to put her down even after she requested. When he did, it was down onto the bed, where he proceeded to kiss the breath out of her. Between kisses, they simply talked. He asked her about her time at court while he was, about how long before the baby came, of how she felt.

Catherine told him that she was certain they had made their baby during the picnic they had had at the gazebo weeks ago. Harry said he was going to have the gazebo banned to any other member of the royalty, and they would visit it often.

They dozed off without realizing, both tired from the ordeals of the last few weeks–the man who had fought a war and the woman who had waited. They were still fully clothed, wrapped around each other like tired children. Catherine’s head was on her husband’s shoulder, her hand fisted in his jerkin, while Harry’s arm was wrapped around her tiny waist.

They were both exactly where they belonged.

**Author's Note:**

> I was going to put a sex scene in there. They were going to wake up and go to dinner, then retire for some sexy times. But I just… I don’t know. Both of them resting and letting go of the past few weeks seemed like a bit of a better end to me, even though they both must be eager to get it on *cough*Harry*cough* But I have now decided that will be a separate fic altogether. So, yay! Sexy times will be continued in the next part :)


End file.
